The first one had been impulsive. His unit was tipsy, amped up on amphetamines, and looking to work off some excess energy. The tattoo parlor was tucked down a dingy alleyway and, looking back, Lucien realized he was lucky to not have contracted hepatitis.
But the black ink stood proudly on the inside of his forearm: Duty First.
His second tattoo was born of a need to chase the pain away. Perhaps if he got one big enough, the sting of the needle biting into his skin would chase the pain in his heart away. And so he sat in the back of a shop in Singapore, gritting his teeth, and letting the artist etch a cherry blossom buds onto his chest. Mei Lin and Li were gone, but this was forever; a way to keep them close to his heart.
For a while, the itch, the urge, was satiated. And then his father died. It drove him back to the bottle and that thrumming under his skin kicked up again and he just needed a distraction, something to focus the pain into a single, manageable point. So he stumbled to the outskirts of Ballarat and memorialized his father and mother onto his shoulders: a caduceus flanked by a painter's palette and brush.
The ink settled into his skin and then settled his heart and he slipped into Ballarat's daily life as if he had never left. At night, he stood in front of the mirror, tracing the ink with his fingertips and thinking back to another life.
And then suddenly Mrs. Beazley, his father's housekeeper, wasn't Mrs. Beazley. She was Jean. She was his guiding light, his North star, his everything. He asked for a partner, a companion, and she had become his everything.
Lucien didn't know how to tell her, how to show her. Words were never his strong suit. So he swallowed his feelings, buried them deep, and let them manifest as ink. He went back to that Ballarat parlor and stripped from the waist up and gave the tattooist strict instructions.
Bright colors, strong lines, bold patterns. He wanted Jean's spirit captured onto his very skin, wanted to carry her with him everywhere. The work took hours and Lucien bore the pain proudly, anxious to see the finished product.
Afterwards, he admired the finished product in the mirror and wondered how he would go about showing Jean, how he would explain everything to make her understand.
And then she told him. She was moving to Adelaide.
The ink permeated his skin with a weight of unspoken words. But Lucien was strong, he could bear it. It was not the only tattoo of his heavy with memory and emotion. But time was running out. She needed to know.
So he boarded a bus, wrapped his arms around her, and flinched when her hand unknowingly rested right above her mark on his chest. In a few short hours, they would be in Adelaide and he would show her. His leg bounced nervously and the thrumming beneath his skin had nothing to do with the urge to get another tattoo-not yet at least.
Later in an Adelaide hotel room, Jean sat on his hotel bed, eyes shining. They hadn't said anything-not yet, as she requested. But 'yet' was passing and 'now' had arrived and Lucien's heart was in this throat. He paced in front of her, stopping and starting a word or two here, before resuming his pacing.
Jean stood from the bed and grasped his hands in hers. "Lucien, it's just me. Just tell me."
He lifted their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to the places where their fingers intertwined and he guided her back to the bed, encouraging her to sit back down. "It's easier if I show you, instead."
Standing in front of her, his hands went to his buttons and began to slowly shed his shirt. Jean started, "Lucien, wait, I-"
But he hushed her. "Trust me, Jean. It's not what you think."
She acquiesced and simply watched, mouth dry, as he tugged his shirt from his shoulders down his sleeves, leaving him in a singlet. Her keen eyes caught sight of a dark line of ink on his forearm and the beginnings of more ink spreading out from beneath his singlet.
She had no idea he had tattoos.
His hands went to the hem of the singlet and pulled it up and over his head. And suddenly, Jean was met with a sea of bare skin before her. His chest was broad and his muscles defined. His skin was speckled with small freckles and to her astonishment, his skin was also decorated with stunning, beautiful ink.
She stood, hands already reaching out to trace the tattoos on his skin. Her hand stopped mid-air and she let out a breathless, "Lucien..."
He took her hand in his and guided it the rest of the way to his chest, jumping as her cool fingertips touched him and began tracing the lines of each piece. Her nails scratched over the cherry blossom first, eyes flickering up to his in question.
"For Mei Lin and my daughter. There was a time we would stroll through the park together and chase the falling blossoms. When I lost them, I wanted something to keep them close."
Jean nodded, "It's stunning, Lucien. I'm glad you have something to remind you of them so close to your heart." She flattened her hand over his chest and felt his heart beating beneath the skin.
"I have another on my back for my mother and father and the one on my forearm for my time in the arm. But its my newest one I wanted to show you." He nodded down to his chest.
She turned her attention to the tattoo on the other side of his chest. "I don't understand."
Lucien grasped her hand and guided it to the tattoo-her tattoo. "It's you."
Jean's head shot up, brows furrowed. "M-me?"
He nodded and sighed when she resumed her careful exploration of his chest. The piece was extraordinary and by far one of his favorites. An elongated lighthouse was etched into his skin, a light shining brightly from the top. Wings spread out from behind the structure and at the base was a collection of dark red flowers-begonias.
"Jean, this is who you are to me. You are my guiding light, my angel, my strength. I know that's perhaps improper and sudden. I don't know when things changed for you-if they even have changed," he added hastily. "But you have become my everything and I wanted to keep you with me, always."
Jean stood in front of him, still tracing the lines of her tattoo, silent. Lucien stood still, afraid to move, afraid she'd stop touching him. But Jean remained silent, thinking.
Lucien broke the silence, "Are you upset? I can't undo this, Jean, but I can cover it. You never have to see it again, I-"
"No!" Jean's vehement insistent surprised him. She softened, stepping closer to him. "I don't want you to cover it up. I-I like it."
The quiet confession warmed him and he felt brave enough to touch her in return. He lifted his hands to her face, brushing the curve of her cheek with his thumb. "Jeannie?"
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the shining light of the lighthouse on his chest before standing on her tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his lips. Lucien stood beneath her touch, shaking, desperate to not move too quickly, to not scare her off.
Jean wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, overwhelmed. His arms wrapped around her waist and simply held her. She broke away from him and fell back onto her heels, looking up at him, arms still looped around his neck.
"I don't have a tattoo to show you," she started. He laughed at her words, shrugging.
"I don't do things in half-measures, love."
She raised an eyebrow. "I know. It's why I buy two roasts a week now." She smiled at him and continued, more serious. "I don't have a tattoo to show you, but things changed for me, too, Lucien. A long time ago." She tightened her grip around him. "I love you."
She surged forward in a moment of bravery and resealed her lips over his, punctuating her declaration with an action. He sighed into her touch and basked in her words. Jean loved him. Jean wanted him.
And each kiss, each nip at his lips, each press of her nails into his flesh seared itself into his skin more than any tattoo ever could.